More like poetry in john (but it sounds better).
Once upon a time, I dabbled with poetry. Was never a big fan, in all honesty, but did challenge myself to write it . . . and once written, into a drawer or storage box it went. And stayed.
The approaching end of a year motivates me to clean up and out—anything and everything. Last week, I found a few “gems” dated 20 years ago. (Like, wow, how’d they remain there so long?)
I couldn’t remember writing those poems and some, I confess, seem so bleak/black. Oof. But some were interesting, revealing maybe. Indicative of the time and events in my life, no doubt.
I’ve picked one to post—a purge, as it were. Given year-end seems a fine time for clearing and cleansing, I’m sharing it . . . as is, even if the temptation to edit and refine is overwhelming. It should remain as is (as it was was)—a tribute to the evolution of yours truly as a poet, er, writer.
A Tree, Me, To Be
I’ve watched the green-blue waters flow, gently and not-so-gently
And I’ve viewed many vivid sunrises and just as many sunsets.
Wildlife is scarce; watersnakes and alligators and frogs and fish
And many types of birds—their plumage magnificent, their colors intense.
Hanging moss and pungent mold surround this great swampy river.
Rocks are few, unless you look beneath the darksome waters, near my roots and those of my sisters.
The sky is azure, peacock and mauve, depending on the time of day and year.
Sometimes it’s iron and slate and pitch and it’s not even evening.
This is because
the storms and hurricanes have arrived. And with them,
great winds and pelting wetness. Fierce and determined.
Then, finally, calm.
Sounds are minimal. Chirps and warbles and singsong twitters.
My friends, the birds.
Splashes can also be heard—those amphibious creatures.
Occasionally, man-made noises fly overhead or rumble in the distance.
One night I dreamed about a person who was a successful writer.
She told me how she kept the faith, held it, embraced it, squeezed it and welcomed it
Until it finally guided her to the point, the place she knew she had to be.
One night I dreamed about this same person.
She was a recognized author, a winner of awards.
She instructed me to pick up my pen and never lay it down.
“Have no fears. Your pen will know the words. It will create
the written images
the brilliant visions
the probing thoughts
It knows what’s inside your head and heart.”
One night I dreamed about her again, this artist of words.
She was standing on a patio—hers—overlooking the crystalline waters of the Atlantic.
She said nothing, simply gestured the aqua expanse.
In self and spirit.
This silent message drifted as a veil of opaque white before me.
Then, I knew
Conviction of self was all it took . . . and all it takes.
Some time later, I had another dream.
But the writer—acclaimed, spiritual, and sage—was not in it.
In her stead was . . . me.
I stood on the patio, overlooking the Atlantic, a pen and notebook within reach
And all the conviction I’ve ever and never possessed coursed through my veins, heart, and mind.
I was no longer confined, bound by fear and doubt;
The thin, twining bindings that had held me firm, my confidence from spilling forth,
Fallen into the water . . . to be carried away by the currents and flows.
I could breathe.
Inhale the sweetness of foliage
the brininess of water
the coolness of the night
and warmth of the day.
I’d finished my book.
It had not finished me.
I had another dream.
The writer came to me—
A smaller version
A birdlike version.
She sat on my branch
And placed a gentle, warm palm to
My body, my trunk.
It kissed me and whispered,
“You believed. And I came.”
I studied her white, crystal face
Delicate and fragile
Like the rime on a cottage window
On a late December’s eve.
There was strength and knowledge
And wisdom that surpassed all time
The longer I looked at her,
The longer I stared,
The more I saw.
That face, that essence
Belonged to no one
And, above all, me.
OMG. Can you spell y-u-c-k? I see why I ceased writing poetry. <LMAO> But it’s all good, because evolution truly is a splendid thing.